White Washed Walls
by Streetlight Person
Summary: A short ficlet delving into Roger's thoughts as he watches Angel waste away in the one place he can't bear to imagine himself dying in.


AUTHOR'S NOTE. Hi! I wrote this at 3 AM. A little background. I prefer the show to the film, however, this little ficlet is loosely based on a scene in the movie. At some point, I noticed Roger's expression during the first hospital scene is kind of scary. So, I decided to explore what his thoughts might have been. Now, before you all throw rocks at me, I used my artistic license to click and drag grumpy Roger to an imaginary hospital scene in my head, not unlike the one in the movie, although, not that exact one, (note the difference in nail polish color). Just wanted to get that out there.

DISCLAIMER. I don't own Rent, I rent.

* * *

He stared at the blank white-washed walls and could feel the anger boil inside him and spill over, splashing onto everything and staining this mechanical, sterile, death-ridden world with fury and rage. 

Everything turned red. Red like a brick wall. Red like a crude construction paper cut-out of a heart on Valentine's day. Red like a rose. Red like the tousled hair of a young lover. Red like warm blood dripping, flowing, spilling. Blood poisoned by disease. Blood being removed by a needle and taken to a lab to be tested. Blood contrasting with pure white tile, with pure white skin, pure white innocence. Blood everywhere. Running like a stream, crashing like a waterfall. Marring everything perfect with notions of fear, misery, and death. His anger was red. It was pure red. And these white walls, these white sheets, these white bed frames, floor tiles, papers, shoes, pants, shirts, skirts, window frames, doors, gowns...now red.

He glared at nothing. He hated, detested, loathed, _abhorred _the idea of ending up in this dungeon of perfect death someday. Sitting in this chair, this disgusting, greasy, ugly green fabric-ridden chair, witnessing his friend's lover slowly wither away of the very disease which was little by little, bit by bit eating away at his own life, he promised himself that he would never, ever succumb to this. This hell. He'd rather spend his last days sprawled out on the couch, guitar in hand and bottle of Stoli close by, Mark's latest film dancing ten-fold across the wall, Mimi's words etched in frost on the window behind him, and all of the glorious sounds of Alphabet City playing like background music as he closes his eyes for the last time. He wanted to be alone, and he wanted to be at home, but most importantly, he wanted his dignity. He didn't want to have to be injected with fluid, have his heart hooked up to a monitor that counted every single heartbeat, have anyone need to carry him to the bathroom or force-feed him liquid meals, and certainly have to stare at blank white-washed walls, feeling anger boil and erupt inside of him.

Roger wouldn't look at Mark, who was sitting a seat away from him, staring contemplatively at the floor. He wouldn't look at Mimi, who was laying with her head on Angel's shoulder, showing him the scrapbook she made. He wouldn't look at Joanne, who stood by the door with her hands in her pockets, stealing sad glances at her ex-girlfriend every now and then. He wouldn't look at Maureen, who was painting Angel's nails a bright lime green, commenting that they brought out his eyes. He wouldn't look at Collins, who sat on the edge of the bed, looking on with miserable eyes and a heartbreaking smile. And he most certainly wouldn't look at Angel, helpless, lifeless, defenseless, powerless; weak, tired, dependent, despondent. Dying. Angel was dying. Slowly, painfully, wretchedly. It wasn't fair. And Roger didn't want to go in this manner. Unfairly.

It was already unfair that he wouldn't make it to see his thirtieth birthday, so why subject himself to this dreadful humiliation, awful mortification? And why burden his friends with having to watch him die? He'd much rather die in the comfort of the loft, snow softly falling in the background, gentle guitar chords reverberating off of the cold walls. Alone. No one to witness his death, no one to hold his hand or lifeless body. Just like April. She died in her own way, alone; the last thing she saw was blood. Red blood. Red like anger, fury, passion, love. Red like Valentine's day hearts, red like human hearts, pumping poisoned blood throughout a body that will die far too soon. Red like that human heart, which will stop. No more blood. No more love. No more anger. No more anything.

Roger gritted his jaw. He tightened his shoulders. He clenched his fists.

He relaxed his jaw. He rested his shoulders. He let go of his fists.

He stood up. He walked out.

And he cried.


End file.
